


A Study on Impressionism

by aileenrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Art Shows, Artist Castiel, Bartender Dean, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2613284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aileenrose/pseuds/aileenrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Dean should have waited to find out who the guy was before he started to badmouth the  man's art to his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study on Impressionism

Dean would never forgive Sam for dating a woman who owned an art gallery.

                A woman who put on ritzy art shows for her pretentious, tortured artists that required suits and ties and small talk and not checking your phone for game scores.  And probably also holding flutes of champagne while saying, “ _quite_ ” and “ _masterful_ ”  in airy voices about smears of paint slapped on the wall. Don’t ask Dean. Dean’s never _been_ to an art show.

                Dean doesn’t have a choice this time, though. Not only is Sarah part of the family, now, being Sam’s fiancée, but apparently the artist being featured tonight is actually the brother of a man in Sam’s law firm. Which really does make it all in the family, which means Dean has to call off work at the Roadhouse and wear a monkey suit even if he doesn’t want to.

                Sam offered to pick him up but Dean says no, absolutely not, it’s already bad enough that he has to go to one of these things. He’d at least like to keep his getaway car. So he shows up about ten minutes late, fumbling with his tie, and tries not to draw any attention to himself as he slips in the front door.

                Almost immediately someone descends upon him—a waiter, offering him a glass of champagne.

                “Oh, sure,” Dean says, and gives the guy a wink. “I meant, _quite_.”

                The guy rolls his eyes in a manner that suggests he isn’t paid enough, and walks away.

                Dean’s just milling around, taking in the chatter of the large crowd, when he sees Sarah, who’s gesturing over at him.

                “Hey!” She says brightly. “Glad you were able to make it. You clean up good, Dean.”

                “Don’t let my brother hear that,” Dean says. “He might think there’s something between us.”

                “I’m pretty appalled,” says Sam, who came up behind Dean. “Noticing that he doesn’t smell like a truck stop for once is an obvious come-on.”

                Dean makes a face at Sam, who does this weird facial acrobatics where he’s about to make a face back but then catches himself, knowing that Sarah’s watching, and tries to look mature by comparison. Having Sarah around really gives Dean a leg-up on the brotherly torture, which he appreciates.

                “Have you had a chance to look at the art yet?” Sarah says. “Its’ called _Nature of the Soul_. It’s really beautiful, this artist is one of the most intelligent guys I know—and you know, I’m so lucky he chose my gallery to exhibit in! He recently got hired as a professor at Hunter College and—”

                “All right, twist my arm,” Dean says. “I’ll take a walk around the place. No flirting, you two.”

                Dean pushes his way to the back of the gallery, where there aren’t as many clumps of people. There’s a massive canvas here, taller than Sam, backlit by glaring light. Dean looks at a for a while—it’s some man with silver lines painted all over him—and shrugs and moves on. There are smaller paintings over here, close-ups of hands and hearts, swirling brilliant colors, but Dean can’t really say what the point is to any of this. Is art supposed to have a point? He should have asked Sarah what, exactly, he was supposed to be looking at, anyway. Another caterer comes by and takes his empty glass for him, pressing a filled one into his hand.

                He’s sipping at his champagne, looking at a painting of a face—dark shadowed features, what looks like a stream of white breath—when he feels the presence of another man come up close besides him. Dean looks over and sees a man about his height, a serious contender for jawline of the year, fucking great plush lips. Dean likes the fact that this guy didn’t even bother to brush his hair before coming to this art show.

                Dean turns back to the painting, but now they’re both standing there, shoulder to shoulder, looking at it, and Dean feels like this is the time where he’s supposed to say something revelational or profound. The man next to him makes a _hmm_ sound, like he’s judging the art in front of him, and Dean feels a swell of relief. He’s not the only odd man out, here.

                “So,” Dean says, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the man cock his head in Dean’s direction. “Seems pretty normal—artist being all dark and angsty with his work.” He gestures towards the paintings. “Plenty of black, all abstract and vague. It’s supposed to be _profound,_ and if you don’t get it, you’re the problem. Moody pretentious stuff.” He shrugs dismissively. “Art these days, I tell you.”

                The man looks at Dean for a long moment, wordless. His lips quirk for a second, a wry smile, and then he says, “You seem like you know a lot about art.”

                Dean goes with what he hopes is an expressive shrug. “Oh, you know. My sister-in-law actually owns this gallery. So I’ve seen my fair share of, you know.” He jerks his head towards the painting meaningfully, raising his eyebrows.

                The man nods. “You don’t like this art because it’s incomprehensible. You can’t even tell what it’s about.”

                “Exactly!” Dean says, nodding emphatically.

                “Would you like me to explain it to you?” The man’s voice is kind, patient, kind of like a teacher’s voice. Dean double-takes, but the man seems sincere about it. It probably won’t make a difference, but Dean couldn’t see anything wrong with spending more time with this hot stranger, so he nods yes.

                The man gently takes Dean’s elbow and steers him around the perimeter of the room, almost to the front of the gallery. They get some weird looks, probably because Dean’s being promenaded around like a debutante, but Dean ignores them. He like the warm touch of the man’s hand on his sleeve.

                They come to a stop before a smaller painting, about the size of a car window. The man lets go of Dean’s arm, nodding towards the picture.

                “ _The Soulless Man_ ,” the guy says, reading aloud the placard. “You can see his collapsed chest, his defeated shoulders. There’s something uncanny about his expression—a man without a soul is, by rights, no man at all. But how do we know someone has a soul? What do we have to identify it by?”

                “Uh, yeah,” Dean says, glancing cursorily over the painting. He’d much rather look at the guy taking the time to explain it to him, the shape of his lips as he talked, his expansive hand gestures. The man tilts his head towards the next canvas, and Dean gladly follows him.

                “Where do we find the soul?” The man continues. “For whatever reason, our culture’s connotation has always placed it in the chest, where the heart is. Maybe it’s because when we _feel_ things, good or bad, we feel it there.” He presses his hand over his own chest for a moment, in example, and then turns back to the painting. “Here we have a human torso, chest hollowed, nothing of substance but the ribs. Is that the soul, that delicate white matter, that we see swirling within?”

                They walk to the next set of paintings, three small ones, side by side. “Here we have the soul as a milky speck, the size of a bead, traveling through the chambers of the heart. Or, here, this delicate blue tracery that we see within the brain, the same paths as synapses and neurons. Is this because the human brain created the concept of the soul? Is that, then, the true territory of the soul?”

                He stops before the last painting, a shadowed figure, two gleaming, silvery wings emerging from its shoulders. They were delicate, made to look transparent.  “Or does the soul exist outside of us, ephemeral, in shapes we would never guess for ourselves?”

                “Wow,” Dean says. He’s aware of a small crowd growing behind him, pressing close to overhear what the man has to say. Probably because this man here actually _gets it_. Dean looks over the picture appreciatively. “You know, that’s actually pretty cool.”

                The man gives him a small sliver of a smile. “We’re not done yet,” he says, and he and Dean progress on to the next canvas. “The next question that arises is, what happens to the soul? How does it change over time? We tend to think of it as white—a blank slate, clean, untarnished. Does it remain that way forever?”

                One painting has a line of figures, starting as a crawling baby, toddler, child, teenager—all the way through to an old man, crippled and hunched over. The soul, Dean sees, start out white and pure, but slowly change as the figures progress. Yellowish, grayish, becoming muddied, black by the end.

                “Here, feel this,” the man says, and takes Dean’s hand and leads it to painted portrayal of the old man.

                “I don’t think we’re allowed to—” Dean says nervously, looking around for Sarah.

                “No, it’s okay,” the man says, with such surety that Dean believes him. “See how the man’s soul is bumpy, textured. Physically, as well as aesthetically, the soul becomes junked, so to speak, as the years pass by.”

                Dean’s finger moves across the canvas, feeling, and the man holds Dean’s wrist for a moment more before letting go.

                “Is this the nature of the soul? To become dirty and used as the years pass, limited by our own material understanding of age and time? What does that tell us about good people? Or people who seek redemption? Surely, at the core, a soul can remain pure, regardless of its surroundings. Take this painting, _The Righteous Man._ ”

                They stop in front of a large canvas, depicting a dark, smoky place, fires smoldering and flickering and casting shadows. It’s Hell, Dean realizes. And, in the middle of it, there’s a burnt-looking man, cradling something glowing in his hands the same way you’d hold a baby bird—delicate, fragile. The man goes to move on, but Dean looks a little more.

                “He’s trying to protect his soul in this one, right?” Dean says. “It’s like he’s—he. You know.”

                He can’t think of the right words to describe it, but the man puts a hand on Dean’s sleeve and squeezes his arm. “Yes, I know. There’s something worth saving there.” His fingernails, Dean sees, are dirty. Or maybe they just look that way, because under the edges and around the nail there are spots of color, brown and black but also a smear of green, a little white—

                Dean stops in his tracks, looking at the man with wide eyes. _Fuck_ ,  he thinks to himself. _Fuck, fuck, son of a bitch._

 _“_ What’s the matter?” The man says, curious. There’s no trace of mocking there, nothing but concern, but Dean wants to sink into the floor and die. “We’re almost done, did you want to stop?”

                Dean can barely look at him. He nods wildly, avoiding meeting his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, let’s do that,” he says hastily. More heads swivel as they pass by, Dean miserably tagging after the man, wishing he’d kept his fat mouth shut.

                “So here we come to the idea that has often stumped those believe in the soul,” the man says. “What happens to the soul when we die? Where does it go?”

                They’re at the painting where Dean had met him, where the first few wisps of the soul are already escaping, filtering out through the mouth of the dying man. As they continue down the line, Dean sees how light begins to seep from beneath fingernails, from the eyes, from the very pores of the body itself, the shadowed figure growing brighter and brighter as the light of the soul bursts from within it.

                They come to the huge canvas, the one that’s the size of the back wall. Dean can see, now, the stunning, shining moment that’s captured here. The man painted here has his head thrown back, his veins alight with silver, and there’s a cloud hovering over his head, bursting forth from his mouth—blue and white and grey and silver, a muddle of symbols and half-seen images, growing fuller and fuller until there’s not enough canvas to contain it.

                Dean hadn’t gotten it before. He hadn’t taken in its sheer size, its scope, the power and beauty of the image. He can hear in his mind the open-mouthed scream depicted there, feel a frisson run down his spine as he imagines the hair-raising, bone-cracking power of the soul sent shrieking from the body.   His eyes feel full, just looking at it.

                His ears are burning as he mutters to the man beside him, “Yeah, will you look at that. It’s, it’s great. It really is.”

                “I thought that maybe, if you understood it, you might second-think your first impression,” the  man says, but he doesn’t sound smug. In fact, he seems to be waiting for Dean to say something else, although Dean is mostly inclined right now to cut out his tongue and never voice a stupid opinion again.

                “Mmhmm,” Dean says. “Complete 180, gotta tell you. I’ll just—”

                “Dean!” It’s Sarah, and she sounds delighted. “Oh, you met Cas. Aren’t you just so impressed?”

                Dean turns and watches as Sarah puts an arm around Cas’s waist, squeezing.

                “Dean,” Cas repeats. “You’re Sarah’s brother-in-law. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

                “He’s been so kind, listening to me babble about wedding planning for the past few months. Well, I’m sorry to interrupt but Cas, there are quite a few people who have been dying to talk to you.”

                “It’s totally cool,” Dean says in a rush. “Yeah, see you later, okay—”

                Cas gives him a quick smile before he’s dragged into the crowd by Sarah.

                “Well aren’t you the lucky one!” Says an annoyed voice near him.  Some student reporter, by the looks of her, with a frosty expression. “Got him to yourself for the past half hour, don’t mind all of _us—”_

 _“_ Sorry,” Dean says, and drains the rest of his champagne. He can’t find a waiter to hand it to, and he’s aware that there are still curious glances being directed his way, so he ends up carrying it out with him as he beats a hasty retreat.

**

                The next day Dean is just as humiliated.

                It didn’t help that he looked Cas up last night—Castiel Collins, that was, a tenured professor at Hunter College, and had won a prestigious fellowship a few years before, and apparently was fluent in another language. This guy was a big fucking deal and Dean had told him to his face that his work was pretentious and angsty and not up to his standards. So who _really_ didn’t understand art?

                Dean grumbles and rolls out of bed and turns on the coffee maker.

                It’ll be a slow day. Ellen still officially owns the Roadhouse for another few months, and she’s helping ease Dean into it by still working mornings, doing inventory and stock. In a few months she and Bobby are going to move to South Dakota, like they always wanted, and Dean will effectively be in charge of everything. Owner, manager, bartender when the need arises. That’s what Dean was hired as originally—Ellen took him on as soon as he could legally serve alcohol. It was more of a debt—she’d known his dad, knew he needed a job—but when she started to think about selling, and needed someone who love the Roadhouse as much as she did, there wasn’t even a question.

                Now, she’s letting him start making his own decisions about some ways the Roadhouse is run. He introduced the Turducken last week to great success. In fact, he’d been feeling like a pretty mature, accomplished person until he insulted the MacArthur Fellowship recipient to his face.

                God, he hopes Sarah doesn’t find out. Then again, if Cas and Sarah are so close that Cas already knew who he was, had been hearing all about the wedding planning, maybe that’s a hopeless wish. Sarah might be on her way over here right now to hand his ass to him.

                Almost as soon as he thinks this, he hears a loud knock on his door. Oh, fuck, maybe it _is_ Sarah. He swings open the door, ready to face her wrath, and instead finds three beefy men supporting a large, rectangular package between them.

                “Um…hello,” Dean says slowly.

                “You Dean Winchester?” The beefiest guy asks. “We got a package for you.”

                Dean wonders if he’s still sleeping. Is this a wet dream? He steps aside and watches as the men tromp on into his apartment. The package just keeps going and going—it’s got to be at least seven feet long. Tall? The men grunt and heave and leave it leaning against Dean’s living room wall.

                “I don’t think I ordered this,” Dean says, finally regaining his head.

                “I’m supposed to give this to you,” the first man says, and he hands him a small slip of paper.

                “Uh, thanks,” Dean says, watching as the men file out the door and close it behind them.

                The paper says, _Dean, I wanted you to have this. –C_

“ _Who_ wants me to have _what_?” Dean mutters, and gets to work stripping the paper off the package. He only has to rip and tear for a minute before he sees what’s inside. “What the hell?”

                After a long moment he stands up, rubbing his forehead. He needs coffee. And then he needs to call his future sister-in-law. And then he needs to figure out where the fuck to put this thing.

**

                He _told_ Sarah to come on her own, but of course she brought Sam as well, because they’re one of those adorably nauseating couples who can’t stray far from each other.

                “Hey,” Sarah says brightly as soon as she’s in the door. “I’m actually surprised you’re up so ear—what is _that_?”

                She immediately zoned in on the painting, now fully unwrapped, propped up against the wall. Dean shrugs at Sam as Sarah makes a beeline for it.

                “This is a Collins. This is the Collins that I showed at my gallery. Why do you have it? This is worth thousands of dollars!”

                Sam is suddenly very interested. “ _Thousands_?”

                “Hey, back off, pimp daddy,” Dean says, wading in there and pulling them away from the painting. “That’s really his?”

                “Yes,” Sarah says. “It’s genuine.”

                “Well,” Dean says. “I think Castiel sent it to me. As a gift.”

                “Why would he do that?”

                “Fuck if I know,” Dean says. It appears that Cas did not tell Sarah about their extended conversation yesterday. Even if he had, it still begged the question as to why Castiel had rewarded the schmuck who belittled his art with a painting worth a few grand.

                “Hmm,” Sam says finally. “You know, I guess he liked you Dean.”

                “Yeah, I don’t know about that…”

                “Why not?” Sarah says. “You guys spent a lot of time together at the show.”

                “Yeah, that,” Dean says, rubbing his neck. “It just doesn’t…match up.”

                “Well, you should call him,” Sarah says decisively. She gets out her phone and starts scrolling through it for his number.

                “I should call Castiel Collins?” Dean says, his voice squeaking high on the last note.

                “Yeah. Get it all figured out.” She looks longingly at the painting. “ _The Righteous Man_ is one of the best pieces in that collection. I’m wondering why he chose to give it to you. Here’s his number.”

                Under their watchful eyes, Dean dutifully plugs the number into his phone, and promises to call him as soon as they leave.

**

                He doesn’t call right away. He paces around his apartment for hours, stopping every so often in front of the painting to look at it. It’s gorgeous. It strikes Dean in a place he can’t quite explain, somewhere in his chest, and resonates throughout him. There’s something about that man in Hell, protectively curling around his soul, his black eyes lifted like he sees something coming to rescue him—and Dean doesn’t normally do art. Normally doesn’t have much of a reaction to it.  

                But he is curious. He’s not sure if this is some elaborate joke, if there’s some punchline he doesn’t see yet. He’s the least deserving of anyone at that gallery last night. Why did Cas decide to gift him with this priceless piece?

                He’s confused and wanting answers and—he can’t help it—eager to hear Castiel’s voice again. It’s a good voice. So, pacing his front room, he finally gives in and dials the number Sarah gave him.

                “Hello?” The voice is unmistakably Cas’s.

                “Hi, this is Dean. Dean Winchester?” Good start. “We, uh, met at Sarah’s gallery last night.”

                “I remember you,” Cas says, and his voice sounds fond.

                “Uh, yeah, I thought you might, because you sent me your painting today? Delivered to my house?”

                “Sounds about right.”

                “Okay, well. I was just wanting to know why you, uh, why you chose to do that.”

                “Chose to send you my painting?”

                “Yeah,” Dean says. He might he wearing a groove into his carpet right now.

                “Well, Dean, I could tell you loved that painting. You got some kind of meaning out of it; it affected you. I thought if anyone deserved it, it was you.”

                “Come off it, man. I basically called you the Criss Angel of art at your own show.”

                “Well that’s the thing, isn’t it? I don’t care if you didn’t understand it right away. Once  you did, you _felt_ something. You appreciated it—and I appreciate that.”

                “You can’t just give me a painting worth thousands of dollars because—”

                “I can’t?” Cas interrupts. He sounds like he’s enjoying himself. “I don’t care about how much money it’s worth. I made it, so I get to decide who it goes to. And I decided I wanted you to have it.”

                “But—”

                “Dean, do you like it?”

                “What?”

                “Do you _like_ it,” Cas repeats.

                “Of course I do,” Dean says. “It’s fucking fantastic.”

                “Good,” Cas says. “Then what’s the problem?”

                Dean has to think for a long moment. What is the problem? This piece is gonna look absolutely killer hanging over his couch, or his bedroom wall. It’s the most badass thing Dean owns after Baby and his leather jacket.

                “Because you can’t just give me a painting out of nowhere,” Dean finally says. “That’s not a fair trade.”

                “Fine,” Cas says swiftly. “Make it up to me. Take me out to dinner.”

                “ _You_ —dinner—out?” Dean sputters. He has a sinking suspicion that Cas was planning on hearing from him. “You want _me—”_

 _“_ Yeah, me and you. How about drinks around seven—The Red Olive, unless there’s a local place you like to go?”

                “Are you telling me where I’m going to take you out to dinner?”

                There’s no mistaking the deep laugh on the other end of the line, or the way it makes Dean’s stomach swoop.

                “I don’t know, Dean, are you going to start offering?”

                Dean stops pacing. He turns around in a circle and gets a hold of himself and finally says, in what sounds like a _very_ nonchalant voice, “How about the Roadhouse. 7:30. Casual attire.”

                “That’s an interesting choice,” Cas says.

                “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Dean says. He’s flirting. He’s definitely flirting with Castiel Collins, one of the most distinguished artists in America. The one who just gave him a painting for free because Dean _liked_ it.

                “And I can’t wait to find out,” Cas says, and Dean waits until he’s hung up the phone before he punches the air, smiling like a lunatic.

**

FOUR MONTHS LATER

                Dean’s just gotten into the swing of things, as far as running a bar and grill is concerned, but one thing he hadn’t counted on was how unreliable his staff could be. No one cares about the Roadhouse as much as he does. Two bartenders both called in sick the same night, and his backups probably saw his number and purposely didn’t answer, which is why Dean is still running around pouring drinks and opening tabs, even though he and Cas have a date in less than an hour.

                It’s a very important date, too, since it’s Cas’s birthday, and Dean’s determined to make it stellar. The next shift should be soon, and if anyone’s early Dean might even have time to duck home, grab a quick shower, and—

                “Bartenders, man,” says a voice from behind him. It’s low and familiar and playful, and Dean smiles when he hears it. He turns back around, giving the two men their Purple Nurples, and sees Cas leaning against the bar, smirking, dressed in a ratty t-shirt with paint smears all over it. “First impressions of them is that they’re constantly drunk on the job, playing therapist for extra tips, letting young co-eds do body shots from their belly buttons so they can make rent.”

                Dean pretends to think about that for a moment as he saunters closer, flipping his towel over his shoulder as he does.

                “You know, first impressions aren’t always right,” Dean says, leaning across the bar towards him. Cas has a blue streak across his forehead where he must have absent-mindedly been brushing his hair back, and he smells like turpentine. And even though they’re supposed to be off to some swanky restaurant in an hour, and a play after that, Dean’s glad to see that he’s not the only one in casual attire.

                He guesses, now, that they’ll have to push their reservations back a little. Head home, take a quick shower together, put on something a bit more appropriate. Cas  might see one of his surprises a little early by doing that—Dean’s wearing them right now, actually, pink and satiny, hidden by his jeans, and he has a feeling Cas is going to react _very_ favorably to them. And when Cas reacts favorably to something, Dean normally can’t walk right for a week.

                Cas folds himself across the remaining distance of the bar, his fingers clasping around the back of Dean’s neck as he pulls him in for a kiss. Dean eagerly goes along with it, laughing as their noses bump together. Presses a quick kiss just under Cas’s eye as they start to pull away. Cas smiles giddily at him when Dean runs the back of his fingers along Cas’s stubble, reaching up a hand to keep Dean’s palm pressed against his cheek.

                “Happy birthday, Cas,” Dean says. It’s soft but he knows Cas heard him over the crowd. Dean doesn’t know why he feels so shy all of the sudden but he thinks it has something to do with the bright glow he feels in his chest—he can’t pinpoint quite where it’s coming from. Behind his heart, between his ribs; a tender, happy sort of ache.

**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all!
> 
> paperclothesline.tumblr.com


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